And now suddenly, while I was pacing to and fro, I heard, or fancied I heard, a voice in the garden calling to me by name. I stopped—I listened—I trembled. My very heart stood still! Then, hearing no more, I opened the window and outer shutters, and instantly there rushed in a torrent of icy cold air and a flood of brilliant moonlight, and there, on the shining snow below, stood Ulrich Finazzer.
Himself, and yet so changed! Worn, haggard, grey.
I saw him, I tell you, as plainly as I see my own hand at this moment. He was standing close, quite close, under the window, with the moonlight full upon him.
"Ulrich!" I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me, somehow, in the dead waste and silence of the night—"Ulrich, are you come to tell me we are friends again?"
But instead of answering me he pointed to a mark on his forehead—a small dark mark, that looked at this distance and by this light like a bruise—cried aloud with a strange wild cry, less like a human voice than a far-off echo, "The brand of Cain! The brand of Cain!" and so flung up his arms with a despairing gesture, and fled away into the night.
The rest of my story may be told in a few words—the fewer the better. Insane with the desire of vengeance, Ulrich Finazzer had tracked the fugitives from place to place, and slain his brother at mid-day in the streets of Rome. He escaped unmolested, and was well nigh over the Austrian border before the authorities began to inquire into the particulars of the murder. He then, as was proved by a comparison of dates, must have come straight home by way of Mantua, Verona, and Botzen, with no other object, apparently, than to finish the statue that he had designed for an offering to the church. He worked upon it, accordingly, as I have said, for four days and nights incessantly, completed it to the last degree of finish, and then, being in who can tell how terrible a condition of remorse, and horror, and despair, sought to expiate his crime with his blood. They found him shot through the head by his own hand, lying quite dead at the feet of the statue upon which he had been working, probably, up to the last moment; his tools lying close by; the pistol still fast in his clenched hand, and the divine pitying face of the Redeemer whose law he had outraged, bending over him as if in sorrow and forgiveness.
Our mother has now been dead some years; strangers occupy the house in which Ulrich Finazzer came to his dreadful death, and already the double tragedy is almost forgotten. In the sad, faded woman, prematurely grey, who lives with me, ever working silently, steadily, patiently, from morning till night at our hereditary trade, few who had known her in the freshness of her youth would now recognise my beautiful Katrine. Thus from day to day, from year to year, we journey on together, nearing the end.
Did I indeed see Ulrich Finazzer that night of his self-murder? If I did so with my bodily eyes and it was no illusion of the senses, then most surely I saw him not in life, for that dark mark which looked to me in the moonlight like a bruise was the bullet-hole in his brow.
But did I see him? It is a question I ask myself again and again, and have asked myself for years. Ah! who can answer it?
ALL-SAINTS' EVE.
A STORY OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
[This story, written some seventeen or eighteen years ago, was founded, to the best of my recollection, on the particulars of a French trial that I read in some old volume of Causes Celèbres, or Causes Judiciaires, the title of which I have now forgotten. I no longer remember how much of it is fact, or how much fiction; or even whether the names and dates are retained unaltered.]
CHAPTER I.
The Mountaineers.
It was a sultry day in the month of August, a.d. 1710. The place was wild and solitary enough—a narrow ledge of rock jutting out from a precipitous mountain-side in the department of the Haute Auvergne. The mountain was volcanic—bare and blackened towards the west; grassy to the east and south; clothed with thick chestnut-woods about the base. A sea of dusky peaks stretched all around. The deep blue sky burned overhead. All was repose; all was silence—silence in the grass, in the air, on the mountain-side.
Upon this shelf of rock lay three men, sound asleep; with their heads in the shade, their feet in the sun, and the remains of a brown loaf and a big cheese lying beside them on the grass.
The air up here was as still to-day, and as languid, as down in the green valleys below. Towards the south, a faint white mist dulled the distance; but in the direction of Clermont, on the north, every summit rose clear and keen against the sky. Most conspicuous amongst these was the long-toothed ridge of the Mont Dor; and loftiest of all, though apparently farthest, the solitary summit of the Puy de Dome. Here and there a few scattered sheep or cows might be seen as mere moving specks on some green slope of high level pasture. Now and then, the faint bleating of a stray lamb, or the bark of a herdsman's dog, or the piping of some distant shepherd boy "piping as though he should never grow old," just stirred the silence. But for these vague sounds and the low humming of insects in the grass, all was so profoundly still that it seemed as if Nature herself were holding her breath, and as if the very perfumes were asleep in the hearts of the wild flowers.
Suddenly, in the midst of this charmed silence, the prolonged blast of a huntsman's horn, and the deep baying of many hounds, came sweeping up the ravine below. The sleepers sprang to their feet, rubbed their eyes, and peered over the brink of the precipice.
"'Tis Madame la Comtesse out with the hounds!" said the elder of the three—a big, burly, sun-browned mountaineer of some fifty-five or sixty years of age.
"Peste! It is my luck never to be in the way when she rides!" exclaimed one of the two younger herdsmen. "Here is the third time our new mistress has hunted of late, and I have never yet seen her."
The horns rang out again, but this time farther away and more faintly. Once more, and it was but a breath upon the breeze. Then all was silent as before.
"They have gone round by the Gorge des Loups," said the elder of the trio.
Then, looking round the horizon, he added:—
"There is a storm brewing somewhere—and the shadows are lengthening. 'Tis time we went down to the Buron, lads, and saw to the milking."
Now these three constituted the usual triumvirate of the Haute Auvergne—the vacher, or cowkeeper, (sometimes called the buronnier) who makes the cheeses which form the principal revenue of the landowners in this part of France; the boutilier who makes the butter; and the pâtre, or herdsman, who looks after the cows, and keeps the Buron and dairy in order. The distinctions of rank among these three are strictly observed.
The varher is a person of authority, "a wise fellow, and, what is more, an officer" the boutilier comes next in dignity; and the pâtre is under both. The Buron, or little wooden hut, in which they live during the six Summer months, in Switzerland would be called a châlet. It is generally built of wood, and divided into three chambers, the first of which is for living and cooking in, and is provided with a rude fire-place and chimney; the second is for the cheese-making, and contains milk-pails, churns, and other implements; the third serves for a cheese-room, store-room, and sleeping-room. A small kitchen-garden, a stable, a pigsty, and an enclosure in which the cattle take refuge in rough weather, completes the establishment.
The Buron to which the three herdsmen now took their way stood on a green slope surrounded by oaks, about six hundred feet below the spot on which they had been sleeping. As they went along, the cows came to their call and followed them, knowing that milking-time was come. Every cow—and there were fifty in all—was branded on the flank with a coronet and an initial P, thus showing them to be the property of the Countess de Peyrelade, a young and wealthy widow whose estates extended for many miles to the eastward of the Plomb de Cantal. Other herds, other Burons, other dependents, she had scattered about the neighbouring hillsides, all portioned off in the same way—namely, fifty cows and three men to each district.
"Tell us, Père Jacques," said the boutilier when, the milking being done, the men sat outside the Buron door, smoking and chatting, "tell us what our new lady is like."
"Like!" repeated the cowkeeper. "Eh, mon garçon, it would take a more skilful tongue than mine to describe her! She is more beautiful than the Madonna in the Cathedral of St. Flour."
"When did you see her, Père Jacques, and where?" asked the pâtre.
"Mon enfant, I have seen her from near by and from afar off. I have seen her as a child, a demoiselle, a bride, a widow. I have carried her in my arms, and danced her on my knee, many and many a time. Ah! that surprises you; but the snow has fallen for many a Winter on the summit of Mount Cantal since that time."
"Then it was a great many years ago, Father Jacques. How old is Madame la Comtesse?"
"Twenty-five years at the most, come September," replied Jacques. "And she's so fresh and beautiful that she does not yet look above eighteen. We always used to call her the little Queen Marguerite; and sure, if a young girl were to be made a queen for her beauty, Marguerite would have been crowned ten years ago. Ah, when she married the old Comte de Peyrelade and went away to the King's court, there was not a soul in the province but missed her. It was a blessing even to look upon her; she was so fair, so smiling, so gracious! From everybody you heard, 'Well, have you been told the news? The little Queen Marguerite is gone!' And all the men sighed, and the women cried; and it was a sad day for the poor folks. Well, nine years have gone by since then. She has at last come back to us; the old Count is dead; and our little Queen will live with us once more, till the end of her days!"
"Perhaps," said the boutilier, who had hitherto been silent.
"Why perhaps?" said Père Jacques, knitting his grey brows, "why perhaps?"
"Is not Madame young and beautiful?" asked the boutilier. "Is she not rich? Why, then, should she bury herself for life in an old château? What will you bet that she does not go back to court before twelve months are over, and there marry some rich and handsome lord?"
"Hush! Pierre," replied Jacques, in a moody voice; "I tell you she will neither marry nor leave us. She has made a vow to that effect."
"Do ladies keep those vows?" asked the incredulous Pierre.
"She will. Listen, and I will tell you all that passed nine years ago in the Château de Pradines, the home of our little Queen Marguerite before her marriage."
The two lads drew nearer, and the cowkeeper thus began:—
"The handsomest and noblest among all Marguerite's lovers was M. le Chevalier de Fontane. She preferred him; and though he was but a younger son, with a lieutenant's commission, the old Baron de Pradines consented to the marriage for love of his daughter. The wedding day was fixed. Then news came that Monsieur George, the brother of Mademoiselle Marguerite, was to have leave of absence from his regiment; and M. le Baron deferred the marriage till his arrival—and sorely he repented of it afterwards! Monsieur George was as much disliked as his father and sister were beloved in the province; and the day when he had first left it was a day of rejoicing amongst us. It was late one evening when he arrived at the château, bringing with him an old gentleman. This gentleman was the Count de Peyrelade. As soon as supper was over, Monsieur George went to his father's chamber, and there remained with him for a long time in conversation. No one ever knew what passed between them; but the night was far spent when he came out, and the next day M. le Baron, who had been full of life and health before the arrival of his son, was confined to his bed in the extremity of illness. A priest was sent for, and the last sacraments were administered; and then the poor old gentleman summoned all the household to take his farewell.
"'Marguerite,' said he to his daughter, who was crying bitterly—'Marguerite, I have but a few moments to live, and before I leave thee I have a prayer to address to thee.' And as Mademoiselle kissed his hands without being able to speak a word, he added, 'My daughter, promise me to marry M. de Peyrelade!'
"At these words the poor young lady gave a great cry, and fell on her knees at the foot of her father's bed. Then the Baron turned to the late Count:—
"'Monsieur,' said he, 'I know my daughter; she will obey my commands. Promise me to make her happy.'
"The Count, greatly moved, promised to devote his life to her; and the poor dear master fell back quite dead!
"It was exactly twenty-four hours after his son's arrival that M. le Baron breathed his last. What a terrible night it was, boys! The rain and snow had never ceased falling since that fatal return. M. le Chevalier de Fontane, who knew nothing of what had passed, came riding into the courtyard about an hour after the Baron had died. I ran out to him, for I was a stableman in the château, and I told him all that had happened. As he listened to me, he became as pale as a corpse, and I saw him reel in his saddle. Then he plunged his spurs into his horse's flanks, and fled away like a madman into the storm. From that time he was never seen or heard of again; but, as he took the road to the mountains, it was supposed that he fell, with his horse, into some chasm, and was buried in the snow. Every year, on the anniversary of that day, his family have a mass said for the repose of his soul."
Here the cowkeeper crossed himself devoutly, and his companions followed his example.
After a few minutes' silence, "Well, Pierre," he said, "now do you understand why Madame la Comtesse de Peyrelade has retired at the age of twenty-five to live in a ruinous old Château of Auvergne, and why she should never marry a second time?"
The boutilier was so concerned that he had not the heart to say a word; but the herdsman, who was excessively curious, returned to the charge.
"You have not told us, Père Jacques," said he, "why the Baron desired his daughter to marry the late Count instead of the Chevalier de Fontane."
"I can only tell you the reports," replied Jacques; "for nobody knows the truth of it. They said that M. George owed more money to the Count de Peyrelade than his father could pay, and that he had sold the hand of his sister to defray the debt. Every one knows that the Count was very much in love with her, and that she had refused him several times already."
"Alas!" exclaimed Pierre, "I don't wonder at the poor lady's determination. It is not her old husband that she grieves for, but her father and her lover; is it not, Père Jacques?"
"Ay," replied the cowkeeper, "and it is not only past troubles that the gentle soul has to bear, but present troubles also! 'Tis not much peace, I fear, that she will find in Auvergne."
"Why so, friend?" said a deep voice behind the speakers, and a man of about thirty-eight or forty years of age, with a pale face, a stooping figure, and a melancholy expression of countenance came suddenly into the midst of them. The mountaineer and the ecclesiastic were oddly combined in his attire; for with the cassock and band he wore leathern gaiters, a powder-pouch and a cartridge-box; while across his shoulders was slung a double-barrelled musket. A couteau de chasse was thrust in his leathern belt, and a magnificent mountain-dog walked leisurely at his side.
"Good day, Monsieur le Curé," said the cowkeeper, respectfully. "Welcome to the Buron. Have you had good sport?"
"Not very, my good friend, not very," replied the priest.
"You are tired, Monsieur le Curé; come and rest awhile in the Buron. We can give you fresh milk and bread, and new cheese. Ah dame! you will not find such refreshments here as at the château, but they are heartily at your service."
"I will sit here with you, friends, and willingly accept a draught of milk," said the priest, as he took his place beside them on the grass; "but upon one condition; namely, that you will continue the subject of your conversation as freely as if I were not amongst you."
Père Jacques was abashed and confounded. He looked uneasily to the right, and then to the left; and at last, having no other resource, "Eh bien!" he exclaimed, "I will e'en speak the truth, Monsieur le Curé, because it is wicked to tell a lie, and because you are a holy man and will not be offended with me. We were talking of Madame and M. George, the present Baron de Pradines. He is actually living here in the château, and here he is going to remain—M. George, the spendthrift brother of Madame, to whom, through your intercession, Monsieur le Curé, she is lately reconciled."
"Hush! Jacques," said the priest, gravely. "M. de Pradines was wild in his youth; but he has repented. It was he who made the first advances towards a reconciliation with Madame."
"I know that, M. le Curé," said the mountaineer, "I know that; but the Baron is poor, and knows how to look after his own interests. He is here for no good, and no good will come of his return. It is certain that the old well in the courtyard of the château, which was dry for years, has refilled these last few days; and you know that to be a sure sign of some misfortune to the family."
"It is true," said the Curé superstitiously, "it is true, Jacques."
And he grew thoughtful.
The mountaineers were silent; suddenly the priest's dog started and pricked up his ears. At the same moment the report of a gun echoed through the glen, and a white partridge, such as is sometimes to be seen in the mountains after a severe Winter, fell fluttering at the feet of the Curé. Then followed a crashing of underwood and a sound of rapid footsteps, and in another moment a gentleman appeared, parting the bushes and escorting a young lady who held the train of her hunting-habit thrown across her arm. The gentleman was laughing loudly, but the lady looked pale and distressed, and running towards the group under the chestnut-trees, took up the wounded bird and kissed it tenderly, exclaiming:—
"Ah, M. le Curé, you would not have killed the pretty creature if I had begged its life, would you?"
The priest coloured crimson.
"Madame," said he, falteringly, "this partridge is wounded in the wing, but is not dead. Who shot it?"
The young lady looked reproachfully at the gentleman; the gentleman shrugged his shoulders and laughed again, but less heartily than before.
"Oh, mea culpa!" he said, lightly. "I am the culprit, Monsieur l'Abbé."
CHAPTER II.
The Storm.
The Baron de Pradines, late of the Royal Musketeers and now captain in the Auvergne Dragoons, was small and fair, like his sister, and about thirty-five years of age. He looked, however, some years older, pale, ennuyé, and languid—as might be expected in a man who had spent a dissipated youth in the gayest court of Europe.
Madame de Peyrelade, on the contrary, was scarcely changed since Jacques had last seen her. She was then sixteen; she was now five-and-twenty; and, save in a more melancholy expression, a sadder smile, and a bearing more dignified and self-possessed, the good herdsman told himself that nine years had left no trace of their flight over the head of "la belle Marguerite." The Countess, being still in mourning, wore a riding-dress of grey cloth ornamented with black velvet, with a hat and plume of the same colours. Thus attired, she so strongly resembled the portraits of her namesake, the beautiful Marguerite de Navarre, that one might almost have fancied she had just stepped out of the canvas upon that wild precipice amidst a group of still wilder mountaineers, such as Salvator loved to paint.
There were some minutes of uneasy silence. The wondering herdsmen had retreated into a little knot; the captain bit his glove, and glanced at his sister under his eyelashes; the Countess tapped her little foot impatiently upon the ground; and the Curé of St. Saturnin, with an awkward assumption of indifference, bent his sallow face over the wounded partridge, which was nestled within the folds of his black serge cassock.
"Mordieu! sister," exclaimed the Baron, with his unpleasant laugh, "are we all struck dumb at this woeful catastrophe—this woodland tragedy? Being the culprit, I am, however, ready to throw myself at your feet. You prayed to me for mercy just now, for a white partridge, and I denied it. I now entreat it for myself, having offended you."
The Countess, smiling somewhat sadly, held out her hand, which the dragoon kissed with an air of profound respect.
"George," she said, "I am foolishly superstitious about these white partridges. A person who was very dear to me gave me once upon a time a white partridge. One day it escaped. Was it an evil omen? I know not; but I never saw that person again."
The young man frowned impatiently, and, changing the conversation, exclaimed, with a disdainful movement of the head:—
"We have the honour, Madame, to be the object of your herdsmen's curiosity all this time. The fellows, I should imagine, would be more fitly occupied among their cows. Or is it the custom on your estates, my amiable sister, that these people should pass their time in idleness. A word to the steward would not, methinks, be altogether out of place on this subject."
The herdsmen shrank back at these words, which, though uttered in the purest French of Versailles, were sufficiently intelligible to their ears; but the Countess, with a kindly smile, and a quick glance towards the priest, undertook their defence.
It was holiday, she said, doubtless in consequence of his own arrival in Auvergne; and besides, did he not see that M. the good Curé has been delivering to them some pious exhortation, as was his wont?
The priest blushed and bowed, and made an inward resolution of penance that same night, for participation in that innocent falsehood. It was his first sin against truth.
At this moment the lady, looking towards the little group of men, recognized Père Jacques.
"If I do not mistake," she exclaimed, making use of the mountain patois, "I see one of my oldest friends yonder—a herdsman who used to be in my father's service! Père Jacques, is it really you?"
The herdsman stepped forward eagerly.
"Ah, Mam'selle Marguerite," he stammered, "is it possible that—that you remember me?"
And he scarcely dared to touch with his lips the gloved hand that his mistress gave him to kiss.
"George," said the Countess, "do you not remember Père Jacques?"
"Ah!—yes," replied the Baron, carelessly; adding, half aloud, "my dear sister, do not let us stay here talking with these boors."
"Nay, brother, this place is not Versailles, Dieu merci! Let me talk a little with my old friend—he reminds me of the days when I was so happy."
"And so poor," muttered the dragoon between his teeth, as he turned away and began talking chasse with the Curé of St. Saturnin.
"And now tell me, Père Jacques," said the young Countess, seating herself at the foot of a chestnut-tree, "why have you left the château de Pradines?"
"You were there no longer, Madame," said the mountaineer, standing before her in a respectful attitude.
"But I was not here either."
"True; but Madame might, some day, grow weary of the court; and I knew that sooner or later she would come to Auvergne. Besides, here I worked on Madame's property, and ate of her bread."
"Poor Père Jacques! you also think sometimes of the old days at Pradines?"
"Sometimes!—it seems as if it were but yesterday, Mam'selle, that I carried you in my arms, and ran beside you when you rode Fifine, the black pony, and heard your laugh in the courtyard and your foot in the garden! Ah, Madame, those were the happy times, when the hunt came round, and Monsieur your father, and yourself, and Monsieur the Chevalier de Fon——. Oh, pardon, Madame! pardon!—what have I said!"
And the herdsmen stopped, terrified and remorseful; for at that name the lady had turned deathly white.
"Hush, my good friend," she said, falteringly. "It is nothing." Then, after at brief pause and a rapid glance towards her brother and the priest, "Come nearer, Jacques," she said, in a subdued tone. "One word—Was the body ever discovered?"
"No, Madame."
She shaded her face with her hand, and so remained for some moments without speaking. She then resumed in a low voice:—
"A terrible death, Jacques! He must have fallen down some precipice."
"Alas! Madame, it may have been so."
"Do you remember the last day that we all hunted together at Pradines? The anniversary of that day comes round again to-morrow. Poor Eugène!... Take my purse, Père Jacques, and share its contents with your companions—but reserve a louis to purchase some masses for the repose of his soul. Say that they are for your friend and benefactor—for he was always good to you. He has often spoken of you to me. Will you promise me this, Père Jacques?"
The herdsman was yet assuring her of his obedience, when the priest and her brother came forward and interrupted them.
"My dear sister," said M. de Pradines, "the sun is fast going down, and we have but another hour of daylight. Our friend here, M. le Curé, apprehends a storm. It were best we rejoined our huntsmen, and began to return."
"A storm, mon frère," said Madame de Peyrelade with surprise. "Impossible! The sky is perfectly clear. Besides, it is so delightful under these old trees—I should like to remain a short time longer."
"It might be imprudent, Madame la Comtesse," said the Curé timidly, as he cast a hurried glance along the horizon. "Do you not see those light vapours about the summit of Mont Cantal, and that low bank of clouds behind the forest? I greatly mistake if we have not a heavy storm before an hour, and I should counsel you to take the road for the château without delay."
"Come hither, Père Jacques," said the lady, smiling, "you used to be my oracle at Pradines. Will there be a storm to-night?"
The old mountaineer raised his head, and snuffed the breeze like a stag-hound.
"M. le Curé is right," he said. "The night-wind is rising, and there is a tempest close at hand. See the cows, how they are coming up the valley for shelter in the stalls! They know what this wind says."
"To horse! to horse!" cried the dragoon, as he raised his silver horn and blew a prolonged blast. "We have no time to lose; the roads are long and difficult."
A clear blast from the valley instantly echoed to his summons, and the next moment a group of men and dogs were seen hurrying up the slope.
"Farewell, my friends," said the Countess; "farewell, Père Jacques! M. le Curé, you will return and dine with us?"
"Madame, I thank you; but—but this is a fast-day with me."
"Well, to-morrow. You will come to-morrow? I will sing you some of those old songs you are so fond of! Say yes, M. le Curé."
"Madame la Comtesse will graciously excuse me. I must catechise the children of the district to-morrow."
"But my brother returns to-morrow to his regiment—you will come to bid him farewell?"
"Monsieur de Pradines has already accepted my good wishes and compliments."
"The day after to-morrow, then, M. le Curé?"
"Madame, I will endeavour."
"But you promise nothing. Ah, monsieur, for some time past you have been very sparing of your visits. Have I offended you that you will no longer honour me with your company?"
"Offended me!—oh Madame!"
These words were uttered with an accent and an expression so peculiar that the young lady looked up in surprise, and saw that the priest's eyes were full of tears.
For at moment she was silent; then, affecting an air of gaiety, "Adieu, M. le Curé," she cried as she turned away; "be more neighbourly in future."
Then, seeing that he still held the wounded partridge, "Alas! that poor bird," she exclaimed; "it is trembling still!"
"Ah, Madame la Comtesse," said Père Jacques. "I'll engage that, if M. le Curé opened his hand, that cunning partridge would be a mile away in half a minute!"
"Do you think it will live? Well, Père Jacques, take care of it for my sake. Feed it for two or three days, and then give the poor bird its liberty."
"Sister!" said the dragoon, in a tone of impatience, "the storm is coming on."
"Adieu all!" were the last words of the Countess, as she took her brother's arm, and went down the rough pathway leading to the valley.
In a few minutes more they had mounted their horses and set off at a quick gallop towards the turreted château that peeped above the trees three miles away. The priest and the herdsmen stood watching them in silence till they disappeared round an angle of rock, and listened till the faint echo of the horns died away in the distance.
"Dear little Queen Marguerite!" exclaimed Père Jacques, when all was silent. "Dear little Queen Marguerite, how good and kind she is!"
"And how beautiful!" murmured the priest.
Then taking a little leathern purse from his breast, he slipped an écu into the mountaineer's hand.
"Good Jacques," said he, "I will take care of the partridge; but say nothing to the Countess when you see her again. Good evening, friends, and thanks for your hospitality!"
And the Curé threw his gun across his shoulder, whistled to his dog, and turned towards the pathway.
At the same moment a gathering peal of thunder rolled over the distant mountains; and the summit of Mont Cantal, visible a few moments since, was covered with thick black clouds.
"Monsieur le Curé!" cried the herdsmen, with one voice, "come back! the storm is beginning. Come back, and take shelter in the Buron!"
"The storm!" replied the priest, raising his eyes to the heavens. "Thanks, my friends, thanks! God sends the storm. Pray to Him!"
While he spoke, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to rend open the heavens. The herdsmen crossed themselves devoutly. But the Curé of St. Saturnin had disappeared already down the pathway.
The storm came on more swiftly than they had expected. All that evening the mountains, which here extend for more than three leagues in one unbroken chain, echoed back the thunder. Sturdy oaks and mountain pines that had weathered every storm for fifty years, were torn up from their firm rootage. Huge fragments of rock, white and tempest-scarred from long exposure on bleak mountain-heights, were shivered by the lightning, and fell like fierce avalanches into the depths below.
All was darkness. The rain came down in pitiless floods; the thunder never seemed to cease, for before the doubling echoes had half died away, fresh peals renewed and mocked them. Every flash of lightning revealed for an instant the desolate landscape, the rocking trees, the swollen torrents rushing in floods to the valley. It was scarcely like lightning, but seemed as if the whole sky opened and blinded the world with fire.
Meanwhile the Countess and her brother arrived safely at the Château de Peyrelade; and, having changed their wet garments, were sitting before a blazing log-fire, in the big salon overlooking the valley. Both were silent. Their reconciliation had not been, as yet, of long duration. Marguerite could not forget her wrongs, and the Baron felt embarrassed in her presence. It is true that he endeavoured to conceal his embarrassment under an excess of courteous respect; but his smiles looked false, and his attentions always appeared, to his sister at least, to wear an air of mockery. And so they sat in the great salon and listened to the storm.
It was a gloomy place at all times, but gloomier now than ever, with the winds howling round it and the rain dashing blindly against the windows. Great oaken panellings and frowning ancestral portraits adorned the walls, with here and there a stand of arms, a rusty helmet and sword, or a tattered flag that shivered when the storm swept by. Old cabinets inlaid with tortoiseshell and tarnished ormolu were placed between the heavy crimson draperies that hung before the windows; a long oaken table stood in the centre of the room; and above the fire-place the ghastly skull and antlers of a royal deer seemed to nod spectrally in the flickering light of the wood-fire.
At length the Baron broke silence:—
"What are you thinking about so intently, Madame?" said he.
"I am wondering," replied the lady, "if any hapless travellers are out in this heavy storm. If so, heaven have mercy on them!"
"Ah, truly," replied the brother, carelessly. "By the way, that poor devil of a Curé, who would not come to dinner, I wonder if he got safely back to his den at Saturnin. Do you know, Marguerite, 'tis my belief that the holy man is smitten with your beautiful eyes!"
"Monsieur mon frère!" exclaimed the lady indignantly, "if you forget your own position and mine, I must beg you at least to remember the profession of the holy man whom you calumniate. He is ill repaid for his goodness towards you by language such as this! But for his intercessions you would not now be my guest at Peyrelade."
"I beg a thousand pardons, my dear sister," said the Baron lightly. "Pray do not attach such importance to a mere jest. Ce cher Curé! he has not at better friend in the world than myself. By-the-by, has he happened to mention to you the dilapidated state of the chapel at Pradines? It should be put into proper repair, and would cost a mere trifle—three hundred louis—which sum, however, I really cannot at present command. Now, my dear sister, you are so kind...."
"George," said the Countess, gravely, "M. le Curé has not spoken to me of anything of the kind. I will not, however, refuse this sum to you; but do not deceive me. Shall you really put the money to this use? Have you quite given up play?"
"Au diable la morale!" muttered the dragoon between his teeth. Then he added, aloud, "If I ask it for any other use, I wish I may be—"
"No more, M. le Baron," interrupted the lady. "To-morrow morning you shall have the three hundred louis."
As she spoke these last words, a loud knocking was heard at the outer gates of the château.
"Bravo!" cried the Baron, delighted at this interruption to the conversation. "Here is a visitor. Yet, no; for what visitor in his senses would come out on such a night? It must be a message from the king."
It was neither, for in a few moments a servant entered, saying that an accident had occurred to a traveller a short distance from the château. His horse, taking fright at the fall of a large fragment of rock, had become unmanageable, and had flung himself and his rider over a steep bank. Happily, some bushes had served to break the force of their fall, or they must inevitably have been much injured. As it was, however, the gentleman was a good deal hurt, and his servant entreated shelter within the walls of the château.
The Countess desired that the traveller should be brought into the salon, and a horseman be despatched to the nearest town for a surgeon.
"Ah, brother," said she, "I had a presentiment of evil this night! Alas, the unfortunate gentleman! Throw on more logs, I beseech you, and draw this couch nearer to the fire, that we may lay him upon it."
The door was again opened, and the stranger's groom, assisted by the people of the château, brought in the wounded traveller, whom they laid upon the couch beside the fire. He was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, slightly made, and dressed in a foreign military uniform.
The Countess, who had advanced to render some assistance, suddenly retreated and became very pale.
"What is the matter, Marguerite? What ails you?" cried her brother.
She made no reply, but leaned heavily upon his arm. At this moment the traveller, who began to recover when placed near the warmth, raised his head feebly, and looked around him. All at once his vague and wandering glance rested on Marguerite. Instantly a look of recognition flashed into his eyes. Then he raised himself by a convulsive effort, and fell back again, insensible as before.
The Baron de Pradines, who had attentively observed this scene, turned to the stranger's groom, and asked him in a low voice the name of his master.
He could not repress a start when the man replied—"My master, Monsieur, is called the Chevalier de Fontane."
"Ah!" said the ex-captain of Royal Musketeers, as he rent one of his lace ruffles into tiny shreds that fell upon the floor, "I will not leave to-morrow!"
CHAPTER III.
The Parsonage.
André Bernard, Curé of the parish of St. Saturnin, was sitting in the little parlour which served him for breakfast-room, dining-room, and study. He had just said mass in the tiny chapel adjoining his garden; and now the peasants were dispersing towards their various homes, or clustering in little knots beneath the roadside trees, discussing the weather, the harvest, or the arrival of their lady the Countess in her château at Auvergne.
The pastor had hastened back to his cottage, and was already seated in his great leathern armchair, busily cleaning his gun, which was laid across his knees; but at the same time, in order that mind and body should be equally employed, he was devoutly reading an office from the breviary which lay open on a stool beside him. His dog lay at his feet, sleeping. His modest array of books filled a couple of shelves behind his chair; the open window looked upon the mountain-country beyond, and admitted a sweet breath from the clustering Provence roses that hung like a frame-work round the casement. The floor was sanded. A few coloured prints of the Virgin and various saints upon the walls; a small black crucifix above the fire-place; a clock, and an old oak press behind the door, make up the list of furniture in the Curé's salon de compagnie.
Opposite to her master, seated in a second high-backed leathern chair, the very brother to his own, an old woman who played the important part of housekeeper in the parsonage, sat silently spinning flax and superintending the progress of a meagre potage that was "simmering" on the fire. Not a sound was heard in the chamber save the monotonous rattle of the spindle, and the heavy breathing of the dog; save now and then when the priest turned a leaf of his breviary. The old woman cast frequent glances at her master through her large tortoiseshell spectacles, and seemed several times about to address him, but as often checked herself in respect to his holy employment.
At last she could keep silence no longer.
"Monsieur le Curé," she exclaimed, in that shrill tone which age and long familiarity appears to authorise in old servants, "Monsieur le Curé, will you never have finished reading your breviary?"
The Abbé, who did not seem to hear her in the least, went on mechanically rubbing his gun, and murmuring words of the Latin office.
The old lady repeated her question—this time with more effect; for André Bernard slowly raised his head, fixed his eyes vacantly upon her, and resting the butt-end of his musket on the floor, made the sign of the cross, and reverently closed the book.
"Jeannette," said he, gravely, "here is a screw in the gun-barrel that will not hold any longer; fetch me the box of nails and screws, that I may fit it with a fresh one."
Having said these words, he opened the breviary in a fresh place, and resumed his orisons.
"Here, Monsieur le Curé," said the good housekeeper, somewhat testily, bringing out a little box of gunsmith's tools from a corner cupboard, "here is what you asked for; but I think there must be some spell on your musket if it wants mending with the little use you make of it! There is no danger of your ever wanting a new one, I'm certain. Then your powder—it never diminishes! I have not filled your pouch for the last three weeks. Truly we should starve but for the eggs and vegetables; and the saints know that our larder has been empty for a long time!"
"What is the matter, my poor Jeannette?" said the priest, kindly, as he again looked up from his breviary. "I do not know how it is, but the game has fled from me lately."
"Say rather, Monsieur le Curé, that it is you who fly from the game! The other day M. Gaspard, the schoolmaster, told me that he met you on the mountains, and that a great hare ran past you at a yard's distance, and you only looked at it as if it had been a Christian!"
"The schoolmaster must have mistaken, Jeannette."
"Oh, no, Monsieur le Curé; Gaspard's eyes are excellent! Then your breviary—it is frightful to see you reading from morning till night, from night till morning, instead of being out in the fresh air, and bringing back a good store of game for ourselves and our neighbours. How shall we live? If you will not kill, you must buy—and your money all goes in charity. Ah, Monsieur, you must indeed be more industrious with your gun!"
"Well, Jeannette, I promise to reform," said the priest, smiling; "I will go out this afternoon, and try to be more successful."
"Indeed I should advise it, Monsieur le Curé; and above all do not come back, as you did yesterday, wet to the skin, and bringing what, forsooth?—nothing but a miserable partridge!"
"Ah! but I do not mean to make a supper of that partridge, my good Jeannette: I mean to keep it."
"To keep it—holy Virgin! Keep a partridge! A live partridge! Why, Monsieur, it would devour our corn, and cost as much as twenty canaries. If you do these things, Monsieur, instead of giving alms you will have to beg."
"Be calm, Jeannette, my good Jeannette; we shall never be ruined by a partridge. Besides, it is a rare bird. Bring it here to me."
"Rare, Monsieur le Curé! I have seen them over and over again after a severe winter."
"Well, Jeannette, for my sake take care of this poor little bird, for I value it greatly. Bring it here; I wish to feed it myself."
The good housekeeper looked uneasily at her master through her great spectacles, and began glancing from right to left in evident tribulation. She did not offer, however, to rise from her seat.
"Are you dreaming, Jeannette?" said the priest, with much surprise; "did you hear me?"
"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Curé. The—the partridge...."
"Well?"
"Well—that is, Monsieur le Curé, you will be a little vexed, I fear—perhaps—but the partridge—"
"Will you speak, Jeannette?"
"There—Monsieur le Curé—there was nothing in the house for supper, Monsieur le Curé—and—and so I—"
"Wretch! have you killed it?"
And the priest sprang from his seat, pale with anger, and advanced towards the terrified housekeeper, who fell upon her knees, and clasped her hands in a speechless appeal for mercy.
Even the dog ran trembling under the table, and uttered a low deprecatory howl.
Recalled to himself by the panic of his household, André Bernard threw himself back into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Could one have removed those fingers, they would have seen large tears upon his sunken cheeks.
At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a man entered the room. The priest rose precipitately from his chair, for in the intruder he saw no less a person than the Baron de Pradines.
"Excuse my intrusion, Monsieur le Curé," said the gentleman, whose features wore an expression of peculiar anxiety. "I wish to speak with you in private." And he glanced towards the still-kneeling Jeannette. "You see I have not yet returned to my regiment. I have, for the present, changed my plans. Pray who is this woman?"
"She is my housekeeper, Monsieur le Baron: she—she was in prayer when you entered," said André Bernard, telling another falsehood to account for the strange position of Jeannette.
Poor Abbé! he blushed and faltered, and mentally vowed another penance for his sin.
"Jeannette," he said, "you may go, I will hear the rest of your confession in the evening."
The Baron smiled furtively as the old lady rose and left the room—he had, unfortunately heard the latter part of the pretended confession.
"Now, Monsieur le Curé," said he, "I have come to consult you on a very grave and important subject. You are renowned in all this district for your piety and learning; tell me, do you consider vows to be sacred and indissoluble?"
The priest was surprised to hear these words from the lips of a gentleman whose reputation for light morals and free views was so extensively known; but after a few moments' consideration—
"There are several kinds of vows, Monsieur le Baron," he replied; "there are vows by which we bind ourselves to the service of God, and those never must be broken. Then there are vows rashly uttered in times of mental excitement, by which people engage themselves to perform acts of sacrifice or penance."
"Ah, it is of such that I would speak!" said the captain. "What of those? Think well, M. le Curé, before you answer me."
"It is doubtless a great sin," replied the priest, "not to fulfil such vows; but still I do not think that the good God in His mercy would desire to chastise eternally an erring creature who had thus offended him; especially if the vow were made under the strong influence of human passion."
The dragoon bit his lips angrily.
"I am no churchman, Monsieur le Curé," said he roughly, "but I cannot agree with you there. Do you forget that God commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac his son?"
"Yes, but I also remember that He sent an angel to arrest the father's hand."
"Possibly," said the Baron, with a bitter laugh; "but I do not believe anything of the kind myself!"
André Bernard raised his eyes to the ceiling, in pious horror.
After a moment, George de Pradines drew his chair beside the priest, and continued:—
"And yet, Monsieur le Curé, I have something to tell you that I think will change your opinion in the matter of vows."
"Proceed," murmured the priest, who was already troubled with a presentiment of evil.
"Since we parted last night, strange things have happened at the château. A wounded traveller has arrived—a traveller whom we believed long since dead. He lives. Eh bien, Monsieur le Curé, can you guess who he is?"
"Monsieur le Baron—I—I know not," murmured the priest; and for the third time André Bernard uttered an untruth.
"I am really surprised, Monsieur le Curé at your want of penetration. Well, it is the Chevalier de Fontane."
At this name the priest turned pale and trembled. He looked silently upon the ground.
"Listen, Monsieur le Curé," cried the young man determinedly; "dissimulation avails nothing. My sister is a rich widow, and I shall be ruined if she breaks her solemn vow never to marry a second time. I have already procured large sums of money upon the reversion of her estate, when she either dies or adopts a conventual life. I am not a man who could pass his days agreeably at the galleys. My future depends solely on her vow, and she must not marry a second time."
"But, Monsieur le Baron, it seems to me that you leap at too hasty a conclusion. Your fears may be without foundation. Madame may not wish to be absolved from her vow—Monsieur le Chevalier may no longer be desirous...."
"Bah!" interrupted the Baron, savagely, "what else is he here for? His servant has told me all. He has been for eight or nine years serving in the Prussian army; during all that time he kept a strict watch upon France. At length he heard of the death of the late Count de Peyrelade: he obtained leave of absence when a decent time had elapsed. Loving and hoping more ardently than ever, he set off for Auvergne; he met with this accident at the very gates of the château, (would that it had killed him!); and there he is!"
The priest was silent.
"You see, Monsieur le Curé, there is but one way to prevent this marriage. My sister is pious, and rests every faith in your sanctity. She will sigh—perhaps she will weep; but is it for a priest, a minister of the church, to be swayed by trifles of this kind? No! it is for the sake of religion and heaven, Monsieur le Curé, that you will be firm and faithful to your trust. It is nothing to you if my fortunes fail or prosper—if a young woman weeps or smiles—you must fulfil the disinterested duties of your sacred calling—you must maintain the sanctity of vows—you must rescue my sister from the abyss of crime into which she is falling!"
"It is quite true," said the poor Abbé, tremulously.
"Then you will render your utmost assistance?" said the Baron eagerly.
"Yes," murmured the priest.
"Monsieur le Curé, you are a holy man, and you have my esteem."
The Abbé blushed and accepted the proffered hand of the dragoon. At that moment some one knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" said the Abbé, starting like a guilty man.
"It is I," replied old Jeannette. "A servant from the château presents the compliments of Madame la Comtesse, and requests M. le Curé to pay her a visit directly on urgent business."
"You see," said the Baron, "my sister has her scruples already. Go quickly, my dear Abbé, and do not forget that the interests of the church are in your hands. It is a holy mission!"
"A holy mission!" repeated the priest, as he turned to leave the room. "A holy mission! O mon Dieu, mon Dieu! do not forsake thy servant!"
CHAPTER IV.
The Vow.
André Bernard arrived at the Château de Peyrelade like a man walking in his sleep. He found that he had been ushered into the Countess's boudoir, and that he was sitting there awaiting her arrival, without having the faintest remembrance of the forest through which he must have come, the gates through which he must have passed, or the staircase which he must have ascended. Truly the Abbé Bernard had been asleep, and his sleep had lasted for two months. Now he was slowly awaking, and it was the stern reality of his position that so bewildered him.
The charm which spread itself round the young and beautiful Countess had not been unfelt by this lonely priest, whose calm and passionless existence had hitherto been passed in the society of an aged housekeeper, or of a simple and untaught peasantry. Seeing nothing for long years beyond the narrow limits of his own little world—his parsonage, his chapel, or his parishioners; familiar only with the savage grandeur of the mountains, or the cool stillnesses of the valleys, is it to be wondered at that the presence of an accomplished and graceful woman should blind the reason of a simple Curé?
Even at this moment, the perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir intoxicated him. Exotics of exquisite shape and colour, with long drooping leaves and heavy white and purple blossoms, were piled against the windows; a Persian carpet, gorgeous with eastern dyes—